Impulse
by IReadAndWriteSometimes
Summary: For #BlakeSecretSanta: Lucien and Jean, 3.5, he says he likes her as a blonde but then takes off the wig and says he likes her best just as she is.


This is my entry for the Blake Secret Santa project!

Tweaked and helped by my trusted friend _escapewithstories_. :)

Enjoy!

* * *

 **IMPULSE**

It was all very unfortunate. The evening was to be a joyous occasion, what with the lovely surprise of Christopher's visit for Jean's birthday. Lucien had also been so excited about and so very pleased with Jean's performance, even as subtle there in the background it had been, and he had been looking forward to rounding up the evening with a small, private celebration at home. Instead, against any of their wishes, everyone was locked up in the club until the investigation into the unexpected death was concluded, and hopefully, the murder solved.

Considering the famous actress had obviously been poisoned, it was with relief that Lucien went looking for Jean once the body was moved to the billiard room. It was a dreadful thought to think about intended targets, misplaced poisons and collateral victims. That it could have been his lovely Jean (because that's how he'd come to think of her) that collapsed on stage, lifeless before her body even hit the ground…

It was a terrifying thought indeed.

He found his Jean in the small makeup room assigned to the supporting cast of their little performance. She stood motionless next to a chair, a hand hovering above it as if in mid-decision whether to take its seat or remain standing. She hadn't heard his soft knock, nor when he walked in, but instead slowly shifted her gaze to the mirror. It was with a contemplative expression that her eyes scanned her reflection, and only then did she finally make out his in it as well, her features instantly relaxing.

"Lucien." He smiled at the breathless sound of his name on her lips, and with the way her brow furrowed as she quickly and more firmly, added, "Do you need me?" he decided her tone had not gone past her notice either.

"Uhm…" he hesitated, using the moment to glance surreptitiously out into the hallway. When he found it empty, he quietly clicked the door shut, then turned around to face Jean again. He wasn't too eager to dump this request on her, he didn't need an audience either. "Yes, actually." Her quirked eyebrow as her eyes bore into him through her reflection prompted him to smooth down his waist coat and to quickly elaborate. "We were wondering if you could show us to Miss Maddern's changing quarters."

She turned around abruptly and with a curtness to match, said, "Of course." Whatever contemplation he thought her to be in a second ago, now seemed gone, and she was ready to get down to business, even as morbid one as this.

It was then that he noted she was most likely about to change. Her hair was still hidden underneath the wig she'd worn during the play, but she'd donned a robe that either covered the outfit she had performed in or replaced it altogether. For a moment, his mind lingered on what could possibly lay beneath the heavy concealing material, before he remembered this was Jean Beazley. It would not do to entertain such thoughts, certainly not in these circumstances, and most certainly not when they would encroach on the high esteem he held her in. Reminding himself of his manners, he shook his head, and waved a hand at her.

"You were changing," he told her. "It can wait a few minutes."

"Nonsense," she waved him off with a stern shake of her own head, and took a couple of determined steps in his direction.

He stepped into her path, even at the risk of her wrath, and with placatingly lifted hands palms up, pleaded, "Jean…"

She came to a halt, and suppressed an eye roll; he could tell. "I don't mean any disrespect, Lucien." She tilted her head to the side, averting her gaze momentarily to an unseen spot behind him, exhaling slowly. "And God rest her soul, but the sooner we get on with this, the sooner-"

"You can enjoy your son's visit," he interjected gently, lowering his hands. "I know."

She relaxed, her shoulders visibly slumping, and suddenly smiled. A bright, blinding smile, he knew only her children could ever coax out of her. "Did you know he was coming?" she asked, and she sounded breathless again, just like a minute ago, only this time, it was wonder that caused it.

"Yes, it was a surprise," he revealed, but truth be told, part of him wondered about the timing of her son's visit. However, not wanting to spoil her birthday or her suddenly cheery mood, he decided not to share his suspicions, if he could even call them that. "I'm glad," he paused, and allowed a mischievous little smile to curl his lips, "he's remembered his mother was getting older today."

He actually shrank beneath her sharp, narrow-eyed look, and took half a step back, fearing more than a verbal reprimand, but then she laughed at his teasing, and his lips widened into a grin. "I do hope," she started, apparently deciding to ignore his jab, her voice still thin with lingering laughter even as she grew somber, "that everything is alright with Ruby and the baby."

He smiled sympathetically. He should have known she'd consider the very same possibilities as he did, but tried for optimism. "Surely he'd have already said if something wasn't."

On a tight smile, she nodded.

Considering the topic closed for the moment, he placed a hand on each of her shoulders, happy to see her let go of the sigh of worry she had been holding in, and gave them a gentle squeeze. "Now, how about you finish transforming back into Jean," he quirked his lips into an encouraging lopsided smile, "and then we can see about getting you and Christopher out of here?"

"Okay," she agreed on a steeling breath, and took a step back until his hands slipped off her shoulders. Without asking him to leave, she started pulling at the pins that held her wig's do in place, and started conversationally, "How long do you think Munro is going to hold us here?"

He suppressed an annoyed grunt, and muttered, "Too long."

She scoffed, dropping the pins on the table beneath the mirror. "I thought so."

He was about to leave the conversation at that, and excuse himself while she finished changing, but when she proceeded to tug on her wig to lift it off her head, he remained rooted to the spot and found himself watching her instead. She had looked so lovely on stage, she always did actually, but there was something about her blonde wig just then that had his eyes lingering on her longer than usual. He was never particularly into bottled blondes, or fake anything, but he couldn't deny that the color suited Jean well. He was certain she would be even lovelier if it weren't just a prop wig, looking course and artificial, but soft and gentle as he was sure her natural hair was. His fingers suddenly itched to touch it, test his theory, but his musing was interrupted when Jean suddenly paused mid-movement and lifted a curious eyebrow at him. Clearly he was far too obvious in what could only be called ogling her, but she still wasn't shooing him out of the room, and he wasn't quite yet back to thinking clearly. Rather than act like the gentleman he considered himself to be, and leaving her to change in privacy like he should have, he did the exact opposite. Not sparing possible impropriety even a fleeting thought, his feet unglued themselves from the floor and moved him toward her. He suddenly wanted to be part of her transformation back to the Jean he liked and cared about most, and when she still said nothing, he reached a hand out and wrapped it around her wrist, gently prying her fingers away from the wig.

"Lucien?" she finally questioned. Her tone was sharp, and even her stance instantly became rigid, but she seemed more surprised than truly bothered by his sudden action. She still didn't ask him to leave either, and it gave Lucien irrational courage.

"Allow me, please," he requested, and if she had any objections she kept them to herself, with a gracious nod of her head granting him permission despite otherwise remaining frozen in place. "I must say," if his voice was more gravelly than usual, he couldn't be bothered to do much about it, "this is a rather fetching color on you, but," he released her wrist, and curled his fingertips underneath the wig on her head, proceeding to delicately lift it, "I'm rather more partial to this one." He allowed his fingers to briefly thread through her tresses, his heart soaring when they confirmed just how soft her hair truly was, then with a neat, little smile he tossed the wig onto the nearby table. When he turned back to her there was a wide-eyed look on her face. He should have, but couldn't feel all too guilty for making her a little uncomfortable. In fact, if not for propriety's sake, he'd go as far as to tell her he found her slight embarrassment rather fetching, too. Instead, he simply shrugged a shoulder in tandem with a lifted eyebrow as he flashed her an honest smile and added a less genuine, "If you don't mind my saying..."

With soft eyes, she met his and smiled his compliment away. A sense of silly pride filled him at his ability to make her blush, but before he could secretly marvel at it, she recovered. "Hmm..." The mere hum was already teasing, but when she closed the distance between them and when her hand lifted to hover to the side of his head, the tables were suddenly turned and it was his turn to hold his breath. "Perhaps I ought to be the judge of a brunette mop of hair on your head then." She ended her little proposition with a flick of her wrist, and he wasn't sure if she had done it on purpose or not, but a tip of her finger just barely brushed against his hair. The touch was so faint actually, that it could hardly even be called that, but it tickled his scalp anyway, and he very nearly shuddered at the feel of it.

Remembering to breathe, he snapped himself out of it and barked out a laugh, answering quickly and seriously. "Of course," he nodded vigorously, his eyes twinkling mischievously, "it would only be fair."

"Yes," she agreed, smirking at him in that way that seemed as though she was guarding a delicious secret, "it would."

He had another retort at the ready, and he opened his mouth to say it, but he realized she stood _so_ close to him, and all speech left him. It was a familiar predicament, one they'd been in before, and it was as exciting as ever. Even though her hand no longer threatened his tamed blonde curls, for she had lowered it down to her side again, he felt it radiating heat mere inches from his. Less than half a step forward and their bodies would collide. He already knew how her hand felt in his, but this was different. The impulse to grab it and risk what he thought would indubitably be an explosive collision was strong, and hard to resist. His mouth remained open, forming a silly, soundless, "Aah," as he fought the urge, and then her eyes momentarily dropped to his lips, and he knew it wasn't all just in his head. She felt it too, and had become aware of their inadvertent close proximity as well. When he managed to swallow and press his lips closed again, as if startled, her eyes snapped back up to his. If either one thought that would help, they were both immediately proven wrong. He was caught up, sucked into her tender gaze. It was as if time had all but stopped, what little space remained between them now charged with—sizzling really— with _something_. It was a bad idea, not breaking the connection, they were both certain of it. But Lucien's heart thundered loudly in his chest, excited and wanting, hers must have done so too, and neither made a move to put some distance between each other and to put a stop to this. In fact, although Lucien couldn't speak on Jean's behalf, he was fairly certain that opposite ideas crossed her mind in much the same way as they did his. And _then_ her tongue darted out to wet her lips, consciously or subconsciously, who cared, and his eyes dropped to them. Good or bad idea, he was beyond help. Even if he wanted, he couldn't stop now, not when he felt so much suddenly, and when he wanted to make her feel it, too. Where they were, and what they were supposed to be doing no longer mattered. He took that half step between them, extending his fingers towards her hand, his entire arm nearly vibrating in anticipatory sensory overload, and slowly leaned in.

If time truly did stop, or if the moment simply lasted a felt eternity, neither could say, for just as Jean tilted her head up to close that last hair's breadth of distance between them and their breaths mingled with each other, an impatient knock kickstarted the clock again, and they flew apart a millisecond before the door was flung open, an impatient looking Munro barging in.

The moment was broken, for better or worse, and a discreet look at Jean found her already composed as if nothing had almost happened. He wasn't allowed to untangle what that could possibly mean when his heart was still trying to pound its way out of his chest, and he thought, both with sadness and a tad of relief, that another opportunity was unlikely to present itself ever again. For the time being, Munro would certainly make sure of that.

"Doctor Blake!" he barked, and Lucien turned around, feeling rather than seeing Jean bristle at the condescending way his name rolled off the man's tongue. Munro's eyes flickered between Jean and Lucien, and he felt heat creeping up his neck and his ears burning, too, but there was no way of telling whether Munro knew what he had interrupted (not that Jean and Lucien really knew either). He merely frowned and spoke. "May I know what the delay seems to be," he crossed his hands behind his back and all but towered over Lucien as he straightened, "or have the two of you simply forgotten we have a murder on our hands here?"

Lucien rubbed a hand over the back of his head, only barely managing not to shift uncomfortably on the spot, before finding his words. "I was just going to allow Mrs. Beazley to change." He took a breath, and stole another glance at her. "Surely that-"

"You can change later," Munro cut him off, looking Jean up and down sharply. "Now," he stepped to the side in the doorway and extended a hand outside, "if you would please…"

The way Jean pursed her lips into a tight line and glared at the superintendent made it abundantly clear to Lucien that she most decidedly wouldn't _please_ , but ever the dutiful woman, she merely smoothed down her robe, nodded, and did as told.

Lucien was glad Munro immediately followed, for he was still to tame his thundering heartbeat. He took a deep breath, tightened his jacket around himself and shook off whatever transpired between him and his housekeeper.

He would analyze this 'whatever' later.

What almost happened.

What could have happened.

What Munro could have walked in on.

Yes, he would _over_ analyze it later.

First, however, he would try to find the murderer in their midst.

 **THE END**

I'd love to hear your thoughts. :)


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